


Since Ostagar

by Serindrana



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 14:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serindrana/pseuds/Serindrana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Deep Roads, Carver Hawke is stationed at Ansburg. In charge of his training is one Cauthrien, former knight of Ferelden and current representative of Weisshaupt. And everything about their relationship is a <i>fucking mess</i> - except for when it makes perfect sense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Since Ostagar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seimaisin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seimaisin/gifts).



Everything was a fucking mess.

He was on his knees in the training yard, soaked to the bone with sweat and rain both, and the mud was getting in his padded armor and probably into his very soul. Ferelden had had its share of mud, yes, but something about Ansburg's was different. Maybe it was just how _soul-sucking_ it was.

He swore and threw his practice blade down. He'd had enough for the day.

"Recruit!"

And he'd had enough of _her_.

"I've got a bloody name, you know!" he shouted, feeling righteous and not at all like a drowned, tainted rat squeaking at some barn cat. Not at all. He squinted through the rain, water dripping from his hair and into his eyes, as the harpy, otherwise known as _not-Ser-anymore Cauthrien, once of Ferelden_ crossed the yard to him, seemingly impervious to the mud.

Well, that made sense. She didn't have a soul for it to suck on.

He did his best to look angry and not just pissy (though he was pissed, he was _absolutely_ pissed, and not in the good way with ale and women and maybe even some good cheese) as she came to tower over him, arms crossed over her chest. He remembered her, from Ostagar. It was impossible not to. She was hard and cruel and everything the rumors said about her.

And she didn't remember him one bit, he was sure.

"Carver Hawke," she said, and he made a little sound that might have been a hopeless cry of _how_? She didn't mark it. "Get on your feet," she said, "get your sword, and go again."

"I'm done," he said, siting back and feeling the mud squelch into the seams of his breeches. _Great_. And he'd have to clean those himself. But Maker take him, he wouldn't move for her - even if she somehow knew his name. She wasn't supposed to. He'd gotten in two days before and they'd only worked as a group. _He'd_ never told her his name. They'd never even spoken except for her to tell him to run laps or do push-ups or _go again_.

"No," Cauthrien said, "you're not." She didn't sound angry. She sounded only frustrated, and perhaps disappointed. He bristled at that. "Get on your feet," she said again. "You've got Tainted blood to make you go, and you could do twice as good as this back at Ostagar. _Get up_ , Hawke."

 _Ostagar_.

"You would have killed me at Ostagar," he said, arms over his chest in mirror of hers.

He watched her pale, then look away. "That's- _get up_."

"No. I'm done."

He wouldn't have dared to do this in the army. He'd barely dared to do it at home, or in Kirkwall. But here, in Ansburg, soul all twisted up in darkspawn blood and _home_ a hundred or more miles away (he had never been good at distances), he was determined to simply _not move_.

They couldn't make him, after all. It wasn't a contract of any sort. What were they going to do? Make him go without supper?

Though come to think of it, that wasn't the best outcome of all of this.

At any rate, this wasn't the army. There would be no lashes. And this wasn't _Marian_ \- there would be no high-and-mighty-ness, no sparking his ass to get him going, no off-hand mentions to mother followed by her dragging him by the ear. There was only an angry war criminal somehow working for Weisshaupt staring down at him.

And she wouldn't dare-

With a growl she dropped to one knee, grabbing him by the front of his jerkin and dragging him close. "I am here," she said, "for one purpose. That purpose is to keep you all in working order, because Wardens aren't chosen for their _brains_ or their _experience_ , but by chance of fate and willingness to give up everything.

"You can die, if you want," she continued, low and too close to him. He felt frozen, pinned. "Let the darkspawn feast on your bones. Or better yet, you could get one of your comrades killed. You could let the darkspawn drag off Lila," she said, with a nod over to the mage practicing halfway across the yard, dark hair and a smile that couldn't do anything _but_ remind him of Bethany. "You could be the reason they take her and destroy her and make her into something that makes more of _them_. You can do all of that.

"Or you can _get up_."

Carver growled, and shot to his feet, jerking away from her. She let go of him and he stumbled back, breathing hard. Rage replaced frustration, and his lips and nose twisted into a snarl, his brow furrowing.

"Shut _up_ ," he said, and she only laughed.

"Make me, _soldier_."

He lunged forward with a shout, but she side-stepped at that last second, bring her fist low to connect with his stomach. Carver grunted and grabbed for her wrist, spinning to keep her from getting behind him. He knew this. He knew fists and feet and the feel of a body pitted against a body, and though she undoubtedly had more experience, he was a _Warden_ and she was- older. Right, older.

And he was pissed.

But Maker take her, she was _fast_ , and strong, and she broke his hold and caught him in his next lunge. He lost his breath as she threw him to the ground, barely managing to roll out of the way as she dropped down on top of him. He kneed her in the gut and she gasped, a sound half-like a laugh, and he snarled again.

His fist caught her face, and for a moment she reeled, but before he could gain ground on her, she was back, shaking her head and wrenching his wrist, pinning it down as she straddled his legs. She was heavy, and warm, and she shoved him back into the mud.

But she never tried to strike him, and as he exhausted himself shoving against her, trying to throw her or hurt her or roll her, as he cursed and panted and shouted, she met every move of his and pushed him down again. She was _better_ than he was.

And she knew it.

He almost gave up. Carver stared up at her, her flushed face, her hard expression, and he almost gave up. But then she smirked, and he heard her whisper, "I said _make me_." And that was enough.

He wrenched his arm from her grip and caught her around the neck, fingers tight but not tight enough to kill, as he rocked her forward with a buck of his hips and struck her in the back with his knee. It wouldn't have been enough to take her down another day, but she was exhausted, too- and perhaps willing to give in. She yielded as he shoved her over, as he rolled on top of her and pinned her with his weight.

And then he was kissing her, not entirely sure who had moved first or when it had happened, but she certainly couldn't do anything _but_ shut up, and she tasted like-

Sweat and mud.

He pulled back, wide-eyed and heart hammering, and he stumbled up to his feet. She was going to kill him. Fuck it _all_ , she was going to kill him, and she'd just trounced him in front of everybody, and she somehow remembered him from Ostagar, and-

"Hawke," she said as she pushed herself up, mud-soaked with her hair clinging to her forehead, her neck. "Go get yourself washed up. You're done for the day."

He'd been right.

This was all a fucking mess.

 

___

 

"Shut up," Carver muttered, sinking down so far into his seat that his chin nearly brushed the table.

"No, really, what was it like?" Pietr nudged him, snickering. "Was she ice cold? Or did she melt to your oh-so-skilled touch?"

"Shut _up_."

"Make me, _soldier_ ," Pietr parroted in a voice higher pitched than Cauthrien's, and Carver fought the urge to do what he had to Cauthrien - try to tackle him to the ground and beat the shit out of him. But that had gotten him in enough horseshit today, and so he just took a long pull from his mug of ale, knuckles white on the handle.

And it was all his fault, too. He'd kissed her. He'd _kissed_ her. Cauthrien, right hand and probably bed-warmer of Loghain Mac Tir, who could hand his ass to him in thirty seconds, who he _hated_ , and he'd kissed her. He did hate her. Or at the very least, he didn't like her. Or- well, she made him feel bad.

Sometimes.

And sometimes she made him feel like he actually knew what he was doing, and she remembered him. From _Ostagar_.

He rubbed at his stubbled jaw with one hand and jiggled his foot against the floor and tried to ignore Pietr, because there was too much else to try very hard not to think about.

" _Hawke_."

Shit.

That was Cauthrien's voice, and Cauthrien's footsteps, and Carver knocked back the rest of his mug and wished it was something stronger. Even Corff's whiskey would have been better. "Here," he mumbled.

" _Here_ ," Pietr echoed, quietly, in falsetto. Carver resisted the urge to stomp on his foot.

"Pietr, out," Cauthrien said, and the Anderfels man rose up with a few muttered jokes.

"Yes, Captain," Pietr said, and Carver nearly tripped him as he left. It would have at least kept him from being alone in the deserted hall with Cauthrien for a minute or two longer.

He didn't look up until with a thud Cauthrien set a fresh tankard down in front of him, then sat on the bench beside him with one of her own. He swallowed and looked between the two, then reached out for the new drink. Her jaw was one big bruise on one side, and he winced at how angry it looked.

"You sure you want me drinking around you?" he asked, and he could feel himself blushing.

"I don't see the harm. You're a grown man, you can handle yourself. If you want to."

"Is that supposed to be an insult?" He watched her now as he brought the mug to his lips, sipping.

She smirked and sat back. She sat like a man, he noticed, legs spread and posture easy. If it hadn't been for her slightly upturned nose and her ample hips and bosom, she could have passed for a man. Maybe. A very beautiful one.

He took another drink to try and break the image of her- what? She already dressed in only trousers and doublets and armor. With a bulge, then?

Oh _Maker_.

"Yes, it was," she said, and for a moment he couldn't remember his original question. He stared at her, wide-eyed, and she chuckled. "And also a challenge. And a reminder."

"Oh," he said, and tried not to show that his hands were beginning to shake, just a little.

She looked him up and down. "You've grown up a lot. Since Ostagar."

"You really remember me?"

"Of course I do." She sat forward, elbows on the table, and tipped her own mug to her lips. He found himself watching the way her throat moved when she swallowed, and that was when he knew he was well and _truly_ fucked. He didn't even bother to move as she set it down, and only looked to her face as she said, "Third company, under Varel."

He nodded mutely, watching as she reached out to grab a hunk of cheese, watching as she nibbled on it. He silently ran through his other experiences with women, the ones that had gone _well_. There had been- well, there had been Peaches, and then there had been a girl at the Hanged Man one night. But there had also been Isabela and Merrill, Patricia back in Lothering, and so many others. Even Bethany and Marian left him miserable, and they were his sisters.

No, he had no idea what he was doing.

She swallowed and shrugged. "No, I remember you. If... things had not turned out as they did, I would have asked you to transfer to Maric's Shield."

"Wait- _what_?"

He stared, all thoughts of his lips pressed awkwardly to hers gone in an instant.

"It's true. You showed promise. I had drafted the transfer orders." Cauthrien shook her head, exhaling long and slow, then looked to him. "And then I ruined everything and thought that you were dead. But you're here, now, and if I couldn't make you into something you could be proud of then - then I'll do it now."

"Oh," he said, and didn't know what to do with any of himself. His hands hovered lightly over the table, his feet slid against the ground, and his heart was in his throat. _Him_. She'd noticed him. She'd noticed him at _Ostagar_ and had wanted to give him a position in the most prestigious branch of the military-

 _Maker_. She looked even more beautiful now. She looked flawless. Damn the lines forming at the corners of her mouth, her eyes, the faint furrows permanently in her brow.

He didn't care about any of that.

"So try not to make an ass of yourself in the yard again, if you would?" Cauthrien said, and instead of shame he focused on the slight upwards curl of her lips. "You can do it in private all you like, but I want to see you shine out there."

Nobody had ever said that in a way he could believe. His hands trembled and his throat felt dry.

"Captain?" he asked, voice scratching and cracking.

"Cauthrien," she corrected, and he couldn't help his smile.

"Cauthrien?" he murmured, and her own smile widened to something undeniably pleased. She inclined her head. "Today- I'm sorry."

"Glad to hear it."

"But I-" His voice caught and he had to force it clear with a cough. "That is- did you- mind? When I-"

"Words, Carver," she said, and if he wasn't hallucinating, she leaned a little closer.

Remembering the words of one very strange old woman on a mountaintop, he closed his eyes and leapt."Did you want me to kiss you?"

"What do you think?" she asked, and if somebody had told him that Ser Cauthrien, she of the ice cold spine and hard hands, she who had faced down the Warden and lived to tell the tale, would flirt with him, he would have laughed them all the way to Seheron. But she was flirting. He shifted in his seat, pants suddenly far too tight.

"I think," he said, opening his eyes, "that you need to shut up."

And he closed the space between them and kissed her, this time determined to let her enjoy it.

 

___

 

Carver Hawke was a Warden, and Wardens weren't known for their deep and restful sleep. But next to her, he slept with even breathing, his face young and gentle in dreams.

And that was just the problem. _Young_.

How young was he? She tried to do the math. He'd said things before, mentioned his sister- _twenty-seventh nameday coming up_ , and so Carver couldn't be older than that. She couldn't imagine him anywhere near as old as that. At Ostagar he had been full-grown, and though he'd filled out a little more since then, it might only have been good food.

No matter how young he was, he was _too_ young.

She was thirty-three, nearly thirty-four, and he was… something very young. He was cocky and self-assured and still tripping over his legs while he learned them - not literally, he was fine on his feet, but in how he viewed the world.

She remembered being that age, whatever it was. She had been certain of her place, but that hadn't made it any easier. And if she had ever been attracted to somebody as young as him before, she would have written that off as the reason, sympathy for what she had been. Except this hadn't ever happened before, this fascination with- well, anybody, except a boy back home when she was fourteen, and Loghain for years and years. She didn't remember what it was to court, or to want. She'd barely remembered how to kiss when Carver had silenced her in the yard, or later when she goaded him into it a second time. He'd laughed at her. But he'd also taken her hand and tried to lead her to somewhere more private, more quiet.

She'd gone.

And Carver, for all his temper and his arrogance and his insecurities, had been an excellent teacher. He'd been patient (to a point), and had met her frustrated pushes with ones of his own, matching his force to her force until they'd been nothing more than a tangle in the sheets, all sweat and sighs and grunts, her name on his lips and his on hers.

And now he was asleep and she wasn't, and he was young and she wasn't, and she swallowed and wondered what in the Void she had just done.

Weisshaupt wouldn't mind. There were no rules of fraternization she was breaking. She was a freelance captain, working not as a Warden but with the Wardens, and even if she had been, she had heard it hardly mattered. But she wasn't so sure, now, with the sweat cooled on her skin.

... No, that wasn't strictly true. She _was_ sure that she wanted him, that his arm draped over her waist felt right. What she doubted was if this was wise, if this would benefit him or her or either of them. She considered slipping out and to her own room, but his weight was comforting, and when she tried to squirm away, his arm tightened and he mumbled something.

She let him pull her back to bed.

But in the morning, when he stirred bleary and lethargic, she rose and dressed and left before he could ask her to stay.

 

___

 

Right.

So she'd run away.

 _Left_ , he told himself, _she has work to do_ , but it sure looked like she had run. He knew running. And he was sick of it.

He bore the teasing in the yard and was glad to hear it didn't include who had been in his bed the night before, who had groaned his name in a way that could still make him flush and sweat with the thought of. They all only joked about _make me, soldier_ and that was alright by him. He didn't need any help remembering the flex of her legs around him, the way she had shoved him onto his bed, the way she had softened with tender kisses and then, later, as he brought the covers over them and curled himself around her slightly taller frame.

 _Cauthrien_. Cauthrien had come to his bed, and it had been wonderful. It had been more than wonderful. And he hadn't intended it to be a one night thing, but she had _run_.

He huffed and nearly threw down his practice sword when the day's training was done. She was across the yard, not meeting his eyes, and he tried not to look at her. He tried not to look at how her leggings clung lovingly to her thighs and hips. He tried not to look at her chest and think of how it had felt to unwrap the binding there layer by layer.

He tried instead to think of a way to fix this, to bring her back.

Did she think he had made a mockery of her? Did she think he didn't respect her, now? He had to fix that. He had to make her understand.

Or maybe she had only wanted one night, but- but he had to make sure that she knew that he would be up for more. That he wanted more. That he wanted to see what she could do with a little bit of practice, and that he was willing to drill with her all night.

 _Drill_.

This was all a fucking mess, and he clenched his jaw, stomping into the compound proper.

 

___

 

He had his plan by evening. He dressed in his finest, which wasn't very fine at all. Still, it was better than shirtsleeves and ratty trousers, mud-stained jerkins and worse. Nice riding breeches (though they were growing worn at the seat and the knees), and a doublet his mother had given him that he suspected had once been Gamlen's. It didn't matter. He looked decent, and with a warm cloak, he was ready to go.

Now he only had to find her.

He lurked in the hall outside of the Warden-Commander's office, listening for any hint of Cauthrien's voice. Nothing. Still, he waited another ten minutes; sometimes she was quiet, and sometimes he held onto hope for things that would never happen.

 _Damn it_. He pushed the thought aside and went to the mess hall.

Nothing there, either. He stopped short of finding her room in the barracks complex, and instead went out to the yard. It wasn't raining, and the mud had firmed some in the last day- and there she was. She was running through drills on her own, and the sword she held was one he had only heard of, finely made by Orlesian hands.

He swallowed. _Loghain's gift_ , if the stories were right. And here he was about to ask Loghain's woman, with Loghain's sword, out on a- a date.

But if the night before had taught him anything, it was that there was little point in not trying - and that Cauthrien hadn't been to bed with anybody in a very long time.

"Captain," he said, crossing the yard to her at a jog. She cut down fast from _ochs_ and landed in _pflug_ , before loosening the tension in her arms and turning to face him. He swallowed again. She was flush-faced and looking straight at him.

 _Now. Do it now_.

"Hawke," she said, and his thoughts turned instead to, _Run,_ ** _run_. ** But he was tired of running. He was _tired_ of it, and he crossed the last few yards between them, eyes dropping to the bruise still marring her jaw, the bruise he'd kissed a hundred times the night before in apology, much to her amusement. Now she didn't sound so amused. "Do you need something?"

"I was- thinking of going into town," he said.

"Check your duty roster," she replied, and he flinched.

"I already did. And," he said, before she could interrupt and before he could lose the last of his nerve, "we both have off tonight and tomorrow morning. So I was thinking we could go into town together, go to a tavern that maybe has some nice imported Antivan brandy, and..."

Cauthrien frowned, and he couldn't find words anymore.

"And?" she prompted, and it was only the softness edging into her voice that unlocked his throat. He picked at the hem of his doublet, almost too small for him and chafing slightly at the neck.

"I... I thought we could get a room. So that nobody would have to- know. If that's what you were worried about?"

"It's not."

 _Fuck_. He rubbed at his jaw, then, and looked back to the compound. "I- right. Well. I..."

"... Do you really want me to go?" she asked, and he nodded, helplessly. "You're very young," she added.

He looked back to her, frowning. "And what's that got to do with anything? I'm not so young. I'm- I'm almost twenty-"

"And I'm almost thirty-four. Does that change your plans for the night?" She stared him down, but this time he didn't look away, and the anger he felt wasn't at her. Not exactly. He kept it reined sharp.

"No," he said. "It _doesn't_. I want to go out with you, and have a nice time, and... and then do it again. And again. Whenever you'll allow it. And I'll even let you kick my ass in the yard, if that helps. I won't talk back. I'll just- Maker, Cauthrien. I _like_ you."

Cauthrien's grip shifted on her sword, and for one wild moment he thought she would run him through, or take his head off. But she only shoved the blade into the damp soil and went to him, coming close enough that her breath was warm on his lips.

"Are you sure about that?" she asked, whispered, and without a thought he reached for her, settling his hands on her hips. Broad hips. Lovely hips. His fingers curled tight, and he heard her breath catch. "Tell me you're sure. Tell me we're not making fools of ourselves."

"I don't feel like a fool," he said, with a lopsided smile. "Not any more than usual. But yes. Yes, I like you. Don't know why or how, but I do. And I want to have dinner with you, and drinks, and another night."

"And another after that," she said, thoughtful and quiet, and he could only nod.

"I've done worse," she conceded.

He snorted. "Comparing me to Ostagar?"

Cauthrien shook her head, her smile sudden and clumsy and broad. "Comparing you to a whole life. It's been-"

"A fucking mess?"

He grinned, and caught her lips with his just as she began to laugh.


End file.
